Every day since the 12th of February has been hard. Some have just been harder than others. This week has been full of the harder days. Monday was awful. After my doctors appointment and after the facebook fiasco I felt as though everything had happened yesterday. Any progress I had made forward was gone. I spent all of Monday night curled on the couch crying and and feeling sorry for myself. I hope with everything inside of me that that moment was my final rock bottom. I can’t possibly imagine going lower – but then again I’ve thought that several times over the past three months. I have been repeatedly kicked in the face. Broken and beaten.
Tuesday morning I crawled out of bed a rumpled mess, my eyes were swollen and my throat was sore from crying all night long. But I had a job to do. If I’m to make my little girlie a big sister I have to lose the weight. Even if I don’t agree with my doctor. I went back to Empowering You. The place that helped me do this in 2010
Back then it wasn’t about a number. I have always struggled with my weight and my self image my entire life (much like every girl). After spending my teenaged years fluctuating my weight and losing weight in the most unhealthy ays possible, when I went to Empowering You in 2010 it wasn’t about the number on the scale anymore. It was about feeling better about myself. It was about feeling comfortable in my own skin and being able to walk into any store and be able to buy clothes at my will. And I got to that point. Not with pills, or supplements or special foods. I never looked at the number on the scale. I had no idea how much I weighed. And I was happy. (And I need to thank the amazing Brenda Barry, the owner of EY for that, and for giving me some hope on Tuesday.)
My doctor has stolen that attitude from me because she’s made it about the archaic concept of BMI. Despite the fact that I could lift my doctor over my head, my muscle mass seemingly plays no role in the equation. Height and weight. That’s all she cares about. You’d be shocked to know how much I weigh. I’m seemingly dense, imore ways than one. But she’s made it about a number on a scale. She’s made it my personal vendetta. As of Tuesday I had 47lbs to lose. As of yesterday I have 43lbs to lose. 4lbs gone and 4lbs closer to shoving it in her face.
And I hate that it’s not about how I feel anymore. I hate that it’s only about that number for me. But I have nothing else to focus on. My dead baby girl who I love more than anything on this earth. And a number on a damn scale. This is what my life has become. And it hurts more than anything.
In this new life I am living, I go out into the world everyday and do my “supposed to’s”. I’ve resolved to get out of bed every morning (well mostly every morning, some mornings I just can’t), get showered and dressed and face the day. I try to accomplish something every day, despite the anxiety and the crushing grief, I face the day. Sometimes I stop in my tracks because reality hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ll see a mother with her children, or a pregnant lady at the store. Sometimes I’ll just remember something that happened the night I was in labour but had completely forgotten. Like today, out of no where I remembered that I had thrown up twice overnight while I was in labour. I have no idea why I remembered that, but the reality of it slapped me across the cheek and I can still feel the sting. But everywhere I go there is this background music in my head, every conversation I have I hear it, every person I am with, I wonder do they know? It never stops.
“Can you see that my baby is dead?”
I look like I just had a baby. I have that telltale pooch in my tummy (not to mention my massive chest). I’ve never been one to feel particularly comfortable in my body. Truth be told, I have hated my body my whole life. I have always suffered from somewhat low self esteem when it comes to my physical appearance. I’ve never felt beautiful, not even pretty. I’ve almost always been overweight, save for the year before I became pregnant when I had actually lost enough weight to finally feel comfortable in my own skin. And now my body, my physical appearance, serves as a constant reminder of losing my daughter. I lost her and I lost all of the hard work I put into trying to accept my body again. Now when I look in the mirror all I see is failure and self loathing.
One of the things I am struggling with quite a bit now is the loss of who I was before Everlee died. I look at pictures of myself taken in the days and weeks before we lost her and I don’t even recognize that person. There’s one in particular that haunts me. A picture taken at Christmas, about six weeks before Everlee died. We were in front of the christmas tree and in the picture I am laughing. I am looking somewhere just beyond the camera lens. I look at this picture over and over. The woman I see there is content. I see her, smiling and confident, and feel an odd sense of detachment. I stare into my own eyes looking for clues- clues to what I’m not really sure; maybe some foreshadowing of the nightmare that will shortly begin, maybe some answer to how I will continue to survive. I envy her, but also pity her- she has no idea what’s coming.